The Song of Alaric
by Voodoo Cannonball
Summary: The tale of Alaric, father of Stephen Deschain and grandfather of Roland, and his quest to slay the dragon of Garlan, as briefly mentioned in DT6. Told in epic form.


Author: VoodooCannonball  
  
Rating: PG-13  
  
Spoilers: Minor Song of Susannah spoilers  
  
Synopsis: When Roland talks with Calvin Tower in DT6, he makes a brief referene to his grandfather Alaric Deschain of the red hair, father of Stephen, who went to Garlan to slay a dragon. This is my interpretation of it, in epic form. Enjoy! Any and all comments can be sent to mllautwm.edu.  
  
The Song of Alaric  
  
Book 1  
  
Muse, the world is moving on. Twilight covers the earth like a blanket and the nights grow cold. The time of Gilead is drawing to an end and the children weep in the darkness of their dwellings. The gnashing of teeth and the braying of the wild and savage beasts drown out all other sounds, and my heart grows like a stone in my breast. Sing to me, Muse, for little time remains in the world. Sing to me of Alaric Deschain of the line of Eld, him of the red hair, and oh his wrath which burned like no other. Sing to me Muse, so while generations may crest and fall like waves on the sand, the song of Alaric will never be lost to the river of time.  
  
In the days of Alaric, a beast came forth unto the land of Garlan. Great and terrible was this monstrous creature, and the ground shook and trembled between its clawed feet. Its scales shone and twinkled like rubies and its talons flashed as though they were the darkest jet or obsidian ever to grace the face of the earth. Its leathery wings were like the tanned hides of black sheep stretched thinly across a frame of white bone, and its fiery breath like no other that has been seen in this world or the next. Its shadow blotted out the sun and crops wilted in the thing's terrible presence. Its name was Ehrerod (Man Jesus bless us all).  
  
Ehrerod went forth across the land, burning all in his bloody wake, a tale of destruction spun out in the oily columns of smoke rising across the horizon in the land of the dark people (that is to say Garlan). The young and the old, mothers and fathers, princes and slaves, all fell before him and were reduced to ash and cinders, as the good book says we all must. The land scabbed over and the wail of the swarthy folken climbed into the blood-stained sky.  
  
In those days of woe and tribulation, Malachi the Old (as he was known in those ancient days), once a great warrior and mighty king, had grown old and feeble in the comforts of his court. Where once swarthy, scarred gunslingers of Garlan poured out great flagons of spicy graf and feasted on fat haunches of beef, old and timid men now sat, supping on apple mush and growing feeble-minded as the memories of battles glorious in days gone by fell from their minds like the spend bass from a speed-shooter.  
  
Malachi Whitebeard, just king though he was (you say true and I say thankya), had no stomach for wars anew. The old and grizzled veteran of many conflicts, he now no longer remembered the feel of the big six-guns in his gnarled hands, nor could stomach the din of conflict and the art of the bullet, the way of the gun. The smell of gunpowder and the clanging of weapons had grown unto him like the taste of rancid meat in his mouth. Old master bone-twist had set upon him ages past and though the old one still possessed the finest pair of six-guns yet seen in the in-world baronies, they collected a thick coat of hoary dust in their creaking leather holsters, their last oiling now a distant memory.  
  
Malachi locked himself in Hereforge, his ancient castle of granite blocks and awaited the passing of the beast as his lands burned. One moon passed, Muse, and the lands burned. Two moons passed, Muse, and still the lands burned. Three moons passed, Muse, and the lands burned still. On the 40th night, the moon burned a feverish red hue, and the shadow of the beast stretched all the way to the gates and drawbridge of Hereforge. The king wept and gnashed his teeth, tearing at his beard and his hair.  
  
Malachi locked himself in Hereforge, his ancient castle of granite blocks and awaited the passing of the beast as his lands burned. One moon passed, Muse, and the lands burned. Two moons passed, Muse, and still the lands burned. Three moons passed, Muse, and the lands burned still. On the 40th night, the moon burned a feverish red hue, and the shadow of the beast stretched all the way to the gates and drawbridge of Hereforge. The king wept and gnashed his teeth, tearing at his beard and his hair.  
  
"Where is my deliverer?" wailed the ancient lord, his thin frame trembling with each tortured word which escaped his lips. "Are there no men left in this world, but only weaklings and monstrosities?" His ancient heroes nodded wisely, but said nothing. In truth, few still had the wits to summon up courage, or even advise their aged ruler. And so, the king withdrew to his chambers and came forth no more, until the day when bloody- maned Alaric, son of Eugene the lead-dealer, of the true line of Eld (Man Jesus say thankya!) rode in to the land, guns on his hips and ammunition around his waste. His home was Gilead, his trade was death, and to both masters he was true. Charyou Tree. Come, reap, and say thankya for it. 


End file.
